All for Lightspeed

…

The draw of a Lightspeed - whatever that was - proved at first too daunting for Harry. The Shape of Modern Magic only brushed across Voldemort's Rebellion and 'the Boy-Who-Lived', but even he knew that being caught in Knockturn Alley would be catastrophic for his reputation at best, and a death-sentence at worst. I want you to promise me that you'll never go there. Was Kneen right?

Harry decided it didn't matter; he could shelve the topic, as he could pick up from his shelf - and practice - spells from any book he wanted! The Trace doesn't work in magical areas… At first, he'd been angry. He'd never felt like that before, even when Dudley had warned his classmates away from him on their first day at school. But the rage had burned quickly; and a burning desire had replaced it.

Harry didn't just want to learn. He wanted to do. At first anything - a simple light spell, Lumos, a nifty (but also seemingly useless) colour changing charm, a spell to levitate objects. Anthing. Sometimes he imagined he could feel his magic flowing down into his hand, changing and morphing to his will…

But then the anything became something. He wanted to duel. He needed to know jinxes, hexes - maybe even curses. The bee-sting jinx was a long way from the bone-breaking spells that Montague had been throwing around (and the thought made him feel sick) but at least it was something. And he couldn't practice it, having no one to practice with.

The thought hurt him on more than one level. Never more had he wished for friends, at least since that fateful first day of school. Yet he couldn't just approach people for friendships' own sake. The mere idea made him shudder and redden with embarrassment. Even if he could, how on earth would he convince them to duel with him? No, that was a dud.

Nor could he approach Auror Kneen, who seemed to want him out of trouble - and besides, how would it look to the man, if Harry said he wanted to study combative magic before he'd even officially cast a spell? Would Kneen even approve of him circumventing the Trace? Late at night, when his doubts came, Harry wasn't even sure about it himself. The Trace was awfully unfair for Muggleborns.

Muggleborns, as it turned out, were also his motivation. It began one day when he was hanging around the mouth of Diagon Alley, by Smithson's Apothecary. The very old man at the cauldrons again, frowning at his reflection in their shining surfaces. Harry heard him mutter something about Danes.

Curious, Harry bucked up the courage and approached him. "Hullo grandfather," he said. He'd noticed that wizards often called their elders 'grandfather' or 'grandmother', regardless of blood relation.

The old man glared at him. "Hmphf!" he grumbled. "Good day young man."

He didn't sound like he believed it was a good day.

Already, Harry thought he'd made a mistake. "Um, sorry sir, I was just wondering… I've, er, heard you talk about the Danish a few times. I was wondering, if you disliked them for more than their shoddy cauldrons?"

On the contrary, Scandinavian cauldrons were renowned throughout Europe. Harry already knew this, but did not want to risk angering the old man further.

"Why, those forsaken Danes killed my brother! He never should've gone off to that war…"

Harry frowned. British wizards partook in World War II? And one was killed… by a Danish man? Still, he felt sorry for the old man, and said as much. "Did many wizards die in World War II?"

The old man blinked owlishly at him, laughed (which sounded like old sandpaper grinding together), and looked at him like he was an idiot. "World War II? No, it was the Great War!"

"Oh, World War I!"

"No, the War Against Napoleon, that little Corsican rat!"

The old man hobbled off, laughing to himself at Harry's foolishness. Harry himself watched on bemused. Just how old was he? Just how long could wizards live?

He remained deep in thought for some time, his young mind stretching out, imagining a life spanning hundreds of years. What would it be like to watch Muggle ages pass? To see old trees bloom and die? To see nations rise and fall? But it was pointless. His childlike mind had as much chance of conceptualising such a thing as a man might have of understanding the vastness of the stars in the sky.

The clicking of bricks interrupted his reverie. Diagon's portal was opening, each block rotating in perfect symmetry, spinning against each other like boxy ballet dancers. Harry watched, amazed. It was the first time he had seen the mechanism from the inside.

But what the archway revealed proved infinitely more interesting. A stern, severe-looking woman with glinting square glasses was standing beside a girl. She was observing the revealed alley with a sharp and uncompromising eye; but as she watched the alley, Harry watched the girl beside her. A Muggleborn, he knew, from the stupefied expression on her face. Is that what he looked like to Hagrid a few weeks ago?

She was gazing at the bustling alley with such awe, such vast incomprehension that Harry could not help but feel inadequate. What was he doing? Meandering around Diagon Alley, perusing for books in the shops, already knowing he would not find what he was looking for? He was a Potter - and whatever that meant, he knew already that he belonged to a family who themselves surmounted the fame of the-Boy-Who-Lived. From what he'd learnt reading The Shape of Magic, this awed girl would have a far more difficult time than he.

Yet here he was, scared to follow Montague's advice, terrified by a few gloomy shops. Shamed, Harry steeled himself, and planned.

- HP -

- HP -

First, he had decided, a disguise was required. How could he enter Knockturn, when at any moment he might be recognised? If, as Auror Kneen had implied, Voldemort's supporters infested the place, then it was imperative that he remain anonymous. Coloured contact lenses immediately sprung to mind, but even magical contacts were wont (he was told) to itch. Harry didn't really fancy that, apprehensive that massaging his eyes might draw attention to their false nature. Rather, he settled with dyeing and lengthening his hair. Apparently, jet black hair was common to the Potters, while he hoped to disguise his facial features by lengthening his hair. He'd seen that people looked very different bald, so why wouldn't it work the other way around?

A long-phase hair-growing potion from Smithson's Apothecary (their wares were apparently superior to Mulpepper's and Slugg & Jiggers') grew his hair overnight. He took the bitter antidote in the morning, then had his new - still black - tresses (and they could only be called tresses, having almost reached the small of his back) styled at Genarro's Barbers.

Dodging Tom the barman, he dyed his hair in the bath. Recently a hair-dyeing potion had been invented, but its effects were unreliable. Harry preferred the reputation of a dyeing serum, which wizards and witches had used to dye their hair for about a hundred years. Or so the bottle told him, anyway.

He did look very different with shoulder-length hair. Unfortunately, it also came out an intense and coppery auburn, which shone blonde in the light. He looked like a walking lighthouse. But it was too late to back out.

Almost as bad were the side effects. Long-phase hair potions made the scalp itch terribly, and tended to cause headaches as pressure and magic were diverted toward the skull. Dyeing ointments stank, and only made the itching worse. Harry laid in bed that night in agony, his head prickling and pounding. It was a teachable moment; the Shape of Magic had briefly discussed the concept of equivalent exchange, of repercussions and consequences, but he'd never experienced anything beyond casting strain before.

Next he knew he had to find Rosier's Trifles - and find it without actually going there. After all, where exactly was Rosier's Trifles? Who knew how large Knockturn actually was? He could be wandering around the alley for hours before he found the place! That Harry didn't want.

As he couldn't really ask anyone without appearing suspicious, Harry decided he required a map of Diagon Alley. That decision took him through most of the alley's book shops. It took nearly a day before he found a complete map. Complete being the keyword. Knockturn was technically a part of Diagon, but most maps simply discounted it. Eventually, he had tracked down a moth-bitten outline in the back of Synde's Second Hand Works. That had not come cheap (or so Harry thought - he still wasn't accustomed to wizarding prices).

Upon it Rosier's Trifles was neatly marked. Even the sight made him slightly ill, despite his resolve.

Yet it was the next day he dreaded the most - and he wasn't even planning to enter Knockturn yet! One word put a pit in his stomach; robes. Harry could accept some of the Wizarding World's eccentricities - the quills and the brooms and the exclamations of 'Merlin!' - but robes were a step (or perhaps a stitch?) too far. Tripping over reams of cloth wasn't his idea of fun, so he entered Alton's Apparel with some apprehension.

He meandered out an hour later, staring down at himself in bewilderment. He'd removed the Hideaway Patch beforehand, wielding his fame with as much elegance as he could manage (it was very embarrassing, he'd struggled to convince them not to give him discounted rates). But Harry had got what he wanted: tailored robes, and fast. The owner himself had cancelled a meeting to measure him up and modify each seam and stitch to his liking.

It was, to Harry's surprise, very comfortable. And almost impossible to trip upon. The forest green outer layers seemed tough and hard wearing, and were layered to protect against spellfire; while the Acromantula silk inner lining was soft and supple to the touch, and did not rub against his… tunic. Apparently, 'wizard's robes' really meant more than merely an outer garment. A wizard might wear under his robe a sort of shirt that they called a tunic. It was shorter than what Harry imagined a tunic to be, with neat folds creasing the arms and upper chest, and a band collar framing his neckline. Alton had given him a strange sort of trouser too, which loosened at the knee and only reached to his mid-shin. Apparently, they were intended to be worn with boots.

For a moment, Harry feared he'd been the victim of some complex practical joke, and he'd be laughed at as he left the shop. No such thing happened. Rather, Harry began to pay attention to the clothing of the wizards who passed him. Some wore Muggle garments, but many were clothed like him. Others were attired in garments that, while certainly not Muggle, differed significantly from his own robes. That made sense. After all, fashion wasn't uniform among Muggles; why would it be so among wizards?

Reassured that he wasn't walking around looking foolish, Harry took a walk down Diagon, just to test the feel of his new clothes. The boots Alton had given him were supple beneath his feet, and comfortable. His trousers never tightened uncomfortably either; they sat nicely on his belt-line. A frown marred Harry's face He was almost hoping to hate robes. Why? Was he seeking something that Muggles did better than wizards, to appease the part of his heart that lingered in the Muggle world?

It was a worrying thought.

And, he realised, foolish. Wizards could enchant their clothing. How could that be competed with?

- HP -

- HP -

All that was left was an identity to fit the auburn-haired boy he'd become. After all, what if he were questioned? At first he'd considered adopting one of the more obscure family names mentioned in the Shape of Magic, but soon realised that he could easily come across someone who knew something of his chosen name. He could even meet a real member of his 'family'! That would cause more issues than he could handle.

It was, he thought, better to find a suitable foreign name, from a place no one would know. For a while he struggled, knowing few names to pick from. Eventually, Harry decided to adopt the name of one of the actors he had seen on television. Many of them were foreigners, and what Voldemort supporter had watched television?

He hadn't watched much television either, but that was beside the point. He quickly ruled out Spanish and Italian names; with his pale skin and northern features, he simply could not pass as a Mediterranean. A French or German name was ruled out too; from what he understood, the French and German state(s?) (it seemed to Harry that magical France and magical Germany might've once been split into many parts*) had a long and storied history with Britain. That left Scandinavia.

And Uncle Vernon's favourite film was The Hunt for Red October. Harry had never watched it, but he'd at least seen some of the credits. Listed there, he vividly recalled, was a man by the last name of Skarsgard. Thus, Harry Potter became Harold Skarsgard.

It took only a small leap to explain why he couldn't speak Danish, Swedish or Norwegian - eventually, he settled for the latter. He was born to an English mother, who raised him in isolation in the wilderness of northern Norway. Conveniently, that would also explain his ignorance.

With his appearance changed and his story straight, he ventured out to Knockturn Alley. Or so Harry had hoped. He brushed the entrance, then lost his nerve, fleeing back to the warmth of the Leaky Cauldron. Another day passed before, at around noon, he finally mustered the courage to cross the boundary (which, itself, was a fuzzy thing).

Knockturn, as it turned out, was cobbled with the same stones as Diagon. Initially, nothing was amiss. The ground did not open up and swallow him up. Nor did a werewolf or vampire or hag appear out of some fog-filled alley to eat his heart and sell his essence. Harry didn't think Essence of Harry would be worth very much anyway. The shops, courtyards and townhouses appeared very similar to Diagon.

They all held the same aspect of antiquity, and stirred in Harry the same pleasant sensation of belonging. Wizarding buildings were so different to Muggle buildings, so much more characterful, so much more… real somehow. Each shop seemed to sing its own song; yet the alley remained in harmony, coherent. Not everything was beautiful exactly, just… right.

The occupants Knockturn also - at first - seemed little different that those of Diagon. Wizards and witches walked the streets, peering into shop windows, discussing, haggling and laughing. An old woman was smoking a long pipe out on a porch, watching the world pass by. Across the street, a child stared through a shop window at an elegant racing broom. Was this what Kneen was warning him about? Could he have been mistaken?

Of course, Harry had noticed a few differences. The street could not be called empty, but nor did it have Diagon's bustle, the throngs of people. Some of the offerings for sale also seemed stranger, and the names of the shops more curious - older, too, he noticed. What jumped out at him most though were the robes; everyone wore full robes in Knockturn, unusual underlayers and all. That suited Harry just fine, in his own fine robes. He'd never felt more comfortable in his own clothes.

But like the Emperor's New Clothes*, that comfort was revealed to be a lie when he made a sinister turn, just as he'd memorised from Synde's map. Light didn't seem to penetrate Highman's Lane - and it was a lane, as no car (or more likely carriage) would ever fit down the narrow cobbles. The houses almost seemed to lean on each other, spreading shadows which clung to every surface, making inky voids on vast swathes of pavement.

Harry felt sweat break upon his brow; the enchantments on his robes must've been working overtime to keep him cool. They could do nothing for his sinking stomach though, or for the spark of fear which danced across his uneasy mind. Who knew what he'd find here, who knew what lurked in the darkness? Warnings of vampires, of werewolves, of hags and worse sprung unbidden to his thoughts. What they would do with Harry Potter…

Harold Skarsgard swallowed, straightened himself, and strode onwards. There was no way but forward. Rosier's Trifles traded out of a small building at the end of the road. He made his way there, very aware of the stiffness of his shoulders, of the rigidity of his gait. It was a constant battle to loosen up, to stop his head from swivelling from side to side, searching in the shadows.

Something skittered in the darkness, something with many legs. Harry felt himself go stiff. What was that? Dread began to build, pooling in his stomach like the first static of an encroaching storm. He wanted to turn and run out, never to return. What if Kneen was right, what if this was a terrible idea? What if this was a trap, what if Montague did hate him, what if he lied about the Lightspeed, what if he only told him to lure him here?

Harry felt dizzy. Something dark came out of the shadows. Harry lost his breath as something heavy barrelled into him. Only vaguely did he feel himself hit the ground. The cobbles were slimy beneath his back. Was that blood? Was this it?

The shape produced an arm, then an outstretched hand, and hefted him to his feet. "Sorry 'bout that fella," a deep-timbred voice said. Now Harry saw the whites of the figure's eyes, and the glint of his very white teeth. "Lumos," he heard intoned.

The light revealed a dark-skinned man with a shining bald head and a large nose. He was wearing red robes. "Y'ohkay there son? Not taken' a nasty bash 'ave yer?'"

"I'm fine sir," Harry said warily. Was this also a trick? The man seemed nice, with a calming, amiable voice and gentle eyes, but appearances could be deceiving. The Dursleys were proof of that.

"That's good son. Wouldn't want that on me conscience. What'chu doin' here anyway?"

Harry paused. What could he say? "My uncle lives above one of the shops."

The dark man nodded. "Stayin' with 'im then? Lucky sod; 'ouses 'ere are expensive, even in Knockturn. Not sure about this place though. Funny, 'innit? Dun't seem t'like the light."

"It is sir." Harry's mouth had gone dry. What else could he say?

The dark-skinned wizard held out his hand. He smiled once more. "I won't keep you no longer. Look after yerself lad."

Harry took it cautiously. "You too sir. Good day to you."

"The same to you."

It took a few moments' walking, then Harry stopped in his tracks. Those last words, the same to you… he could've sworn his accent changed? Slowly, Harry turned. The man was gone. Had he imagined it? One moment, Cockney; the next, received pronunciation (or that was what his aunt called it, anyway).

Harry shook his head. It didn't matter. Rosier's Trifles was in sight.

As Synde's map had implied, it was a small shop. A wide bay window bulged out, making a deep porch into which was set a door painted a deep red. Above, a large sign proclaimed its name beside a coat of arms.

Now he felt safe, Harry allowed himself a musing; it was strange, he suddenly thought, noticing the wear on the building, the staining on the sign, that wizards would allow such things. After all, they could conjure from thin air. How could they be poor? And it wasn't just Knockturn either, but lesser travelled sections of Diagon…

Shrugging it off for later, Harry finally entered the shop.

The interior looked like a bomb had gone off inside yet - somehow - nothing had broken. Rather, the blast had scattered the detritus across the floors like a child flinging toys. The metaphor broke down when he considered piles of books, but that was beside the point. Harry's eyes struggled to take it all in. Nothing seemed organised. Books and potions and weird whirring bronze mechanisms; ingredients and rune matrixes and shimmering crystal balls; furniture and clocks and a strange wooden horse that went moo. Rosier's Trifles had everything Harry believed existed within its walls.

That included a small boy, perhaps a year younger than Harry, who was standing behind the counter, trying his best to look important. His expression was so haughty, Harry almost laughed at the absurdity.

"Good evening," the boy said (it was afternoon). Like his face, there was something comical about his attempt at an imperious tone.

Harry swept his eyes around the mess. Would the boy even know what a Lightspeed was? Where was the owner? "Hullo," he replied, slowly approaching the counter. He knew it would not do well to mention contraband so quickly. "I'm looking for a training aide. A small item, like so-". He put his finger and thumb together in a circular shape. "Do you know of one?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Ah, uh-". He backed up, squeaked - and his face slipped from its haughty mask - then fell. Or maybe slipped. Harry couldn't tell. There was a bang, then a few more tumbles, like rocks hitting the carpet.

Harry watched on, plain-faced.

A moment later, the boy poked his head above the counter, rebounding like he was made of rubber. His hair was all skew-wiff. "I'm fine," he cried, his voice cracking. "I'm fine."

"Idiot child," another voice said fondly, wafting in from a backroom. The owner soon followed. "Keep yourself balanced on those books, or sit on the counter. How many times have I told you?"

He was an unassuming grey-haired man, with small, thin spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He was almost as thin as his glasses. Clever eyes were inset behind them. He could only be Rosier. He turned to Harry. "And you sir, the object you seek is not here. Good day."

Harry couldn't restrain the deep frown that creased his lips. After all that, was that it? He'd followed Montague's advice to the letter, dyed his hair and wore silly robes (ignoring, for a moment, that he quite liked them), all for a few sharp words and a dismissal! Montague had lured him in, told him nonsense, all to put him in danger! Monta- Ah! That was his last throw of the dice. "Really? Euan Montague must've been mistaken then. Perhaps he recommended some other shop."

Rosier's frown matched Harry's own. "Hmmph, perhaps we're at crossed wands. Let me take a look in the backroom…"

Harry hoped that being at crossed wands meant something good.

While Rosier left, the boy looked at Harry with wide eyes. "Wow," he said. "No one speaks to Uncle like that."

Harry doubted no one had ever spoken to the man like that before. Even so, it was flattering. He shrugged, blushing. "It, er, is nothing. Just haggling I suppose, in its own way." Could it be called haggling for information? He wasn't sure, but had to say something.

Thereafter, there was a long silence. The boy continued to stare. Harry tried not to fidget. Tension built. He could almost believe there was a real bomb in the shop.

Fortunately, Rosier soon returned. "Here you are," he said, holding out a small yellow sphere to Harry. "A Lightspeed. Difficult to find nowadays you know, with all those ignorant Campbellites banning the Sun and the Moon…"

Harry reached out for the dull yellow sphere… And felt a strange shiver caress down his spine. Then, a sudden force, like the press of gravity after a moment of weightlessness. He twitched, and Rosier started. He must've felt it too. What was that?

"Wards!" the old man gasped. "Aurors!"

Quick as a flash, he drew his wand, menacing it at Harry.

And in the tip of that wand, all the anxieties, all the tensions, all the fear was a sharp and unyielding point, aimed right at Harry's heart.

No, he thought, no. He couldn't be found here. It would ruin everything… and before that, he had to survive Rosier's wrathful mood…

A/N

*A have no particular love or hatred of Stellan Skarsgard. He's a decent actor. I simply chose him because The Hunt for Red October was released in 1990. This makes it an appropriate movie to choose as Vernon Dursley's favourite - especially considering its content. It's a good movie too.

*Recall the famous story.

*Of course, France and Germany were both split into many parts. Harry, being eleven, raised by a neglectful family, and taught in a late 1980s early 1990s British primary school. Outside of this story, it is curious to compare the origins of the two nations. Both split from a single genesis; the great Frankish Empire, but one is a 'political-expansive' nation (perhaps the term empire might fit) while the other is a cultural-convalescing nation.

The French nation once occupied little more than the Pale of Paris, but spread through military and political might, slowly absorbing its surrounding vassals - gradually Francifying (to coin a term) them. Thus, the French identity follows French conquest of similar peoples.

The German nation, though to a degree materialised in the Holy Roman Empire, can more be considered a 'culture first' nation. Germany is a young state but an old nation, with the concept of Germanness solidifying long before the modern state.

Anyway, here's chapter III of The Duellist, and the beginning of a new arc, All For Lightspeed! What will this entail?

That would be telling. I hope you enjoyed your read.

Take care of yourselves,

Jousting Alchemy